


784 Fifth Avenue

by zaticon1



Category: Emetophilia - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaticon1/pseuds/zaticon1





	784 Fifth Avenue

784 Fifth Avenue

 

Alone in the elevator, Ava worked off her gloves and shrugged out of her coat. The cool air wafting down from the grate in the ceiling felt wonderful on her bare back and shoulders and she realized just how uncomfortable she’d been, swaddled in that heavy finery. It wasn’t at all the season for ermine and opera length white kid, but the night had demanded her very best and the response of the press photographers proved that her efforts had not been wasted. In her mind, she could still hear the clicking shutters of the Speed Graphics and the festive, almost champagne cork sound of their popping flashbulbs, setting everything, brilliantly, wonderfully alight. She could still see faint ghosts of them when she closed her eyes.

As the car began to decelerate she got her keys from her clutch. The dark paneled doors slid open and she stepped into the hall, coat and gloves draped over her arm. Exhausted and delighted to be home, she walked the short distance to her apartment.

Inside, she hung the ermine in the cedar lined foyer closet and carefully examined the palms of her gloves. As she expected, they’d need cleaning. White was seldom good for more than one outing. She put them on a padded hanger and closed the closet door. 

She went over to the big Magnavox hi-fi in the living room and switched it on. She’d had it for just a little over a week and it was still her shiny new toy. The number 660 glowed up at her from the dial. She hadn’t touched the knob since finding the station, on that first day. She headed for the bedroom. 

In a few moments, the set had warmed up and the sound of station WFAN was softly filling the apartment. She kicked off her pumps and began undoing her earrings and necklace, humming along with Domenico Modugno. 

“No wonder my happy heart sings, your love has given me wings  
Penso che un sogno cosi non ritorni mai piu……..”

The zipper of her Pierre Balmain came down with a quiet purr. She stepped out of the gown and held it at arms’ length. Its’ rich, emerald shade was custom matched to the color of her eyes. Unlike the gloves, it looked to be good for one more outing. She draped it over the Frostick and set about undoing her garters and hose. The stockings were a ruin, of course. The dancing had shredded the soles. Even this made her smile. Maybe she’d rinse them out and put them away, as a keepsake.

That left only her silkies and her corselette. She struggled out of with a mixture of simple relief and pure, animal pleasure. Ahhhh……..she could BREATHE, again! 

Gratefully naked, she did a turn in front of the looking glass in the corner of the room. She liked what she saw. ‘Soft and round where it should be, lean and supple, everywhere else. There was, of course, the obvious swell of dinner in her tummy. She touched it lightly with the tips of her fingers. She’d need to be a very good girl for a few days. Well, that was all right. 

She usually ended her day with a long soak in the tub. Tonight, though, she’d pass. Nothing sounded better than bed. She put on a peach colored peignoir and sat down at her dressing table to brush out her hair. She managed her usual hundred strokes, but it was an effort. She was happy to finally set down the brush. 

When she reached for a jar of face cream she saw that her hand was trembling, just slightly. She wasn’t just tired. She was entirely done in. There was even a fine mist of perspiration on her forehead. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Relaxing even this little bit felt wonderful. She decided to lie down for a short while, before finishing up. 

She stood, put out the lights and moved to her bed. The night was too warm for blankets, so she simply lay down atop the comforter. That was better, anyway. If she went all the way to bed, she might not wake up until morning and she couldn’t go the whole night with her makeup on.

She needn’t have worried. Even worn out as she was, she could neither get comfortable nor relax. Her huge dinner was lying even more heavily on her chest and her muscles were starting to burn from the evenings’ exertion. Despite the warmth of the night and the room, she shivered. She did slip under the covers then and lay on her side with her legs drawn up. This took some of the pressure off of her stomach and eased the cramps in her legs. After a while, she did sink into a light doze. 

It didn’t last. Sometime later, she came awake in a full sweat, roused by a disturbing sensation of motion. The room seemed to be slowly revolving, beneath her. She sat up and put her elbows on her thighs, resting her head in her hands. There was no denying that she’d had plenty to drink, but she’d already felt the effects of it passing during the cab ride home. Now, it seemed to have taken hold of her again. But, it was a funny, swimmy kind of feeling, not like regular drunkenness and not, at all, pleasant. She tried closing her eyes and the room instantly reeled. Jolted, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. 

The quick, sudden move made her stagger, slightly. She braced herself against the night table and stood for a number of seconds, swaying. She felt foolish at her clumsiness, but she was also worried. Something was wrong. 

She straightened and asked herself what she should do. Lying down hadn’t helped her at all. In fact, it might be why she felt so bad now, lying there letting all of that press down on her, that way. So she couldn’t go back to bed. But, God, she was exhausted. She needed to rest. The sofa, in the living room, she decided. Yes. That would be better. She could stay there the whole night, if she wished. She could sleep sitting up. Yes. 

She was nearly to the end of the hall when she suddenly drew up, freshly alarmed. Almost involuntarily, her hands rose to her stomach. She turned around and strode toward the bathroom at the opposite end of the hall. She knew what was wrong with her. By the time she switched on the vanity light, the sight of her face in the cabinet mirror only confirmed it. She opened the door of the medicine cabinet and rummaged through the bottles and jars for anything that could possibly help an upset stomach. 

All she found was an ancient bottle of Pep-Tans. She unscrewed the cap, took a deep breath, and forced down a swallow of the thick, chalky liquid. Shuddering at the stale, muddy taste, she leaned down and rinsed her mouth under the tap. 

She didn’t like being in the bathroom. She went back into the hall carefully closed the door behind her, before once again starting for the living room. The move was made with a calculation that was entirely subconscious and was one that she’d regret. 

She walked slowly, eyes down, resisting the urge to place her hands back on her stomach. Even with her mouth rinsed, the faint taste the Pep-Tans lingered unpleasantly on her tongue and she didn’t fell any less queasy. She hoped she wouldn’t be sorry for putting it in her stomach. 

In the living room, she went to the wet bar and took a bottle of White Rock from the little refrigerator. She knew that ginger ale was good for nausea and hoped that a drink might freshen her mouth. She put some ice into a Collins glass, filled the glass then went to the sofa. She settled down and gazed absently across the terrace at the city. Again, relaxing felt good. 

The glass was cold in her hand, on the armrest. She thought of taking a sip, but decided to give the medicine a little more time. She really didn’t know how long it needed, or even exactly what it was supposed to do. At least it hadn’t made her feel any worse, as she’d been afraid that it might. Not so far, at least. 

In fact, she thought that she felt at least a little bit better. The scare she’d had in the hall was bad, but now that she thought about it, she realized that the worst of it was passed even before she reached the bathroom. Maybe she’d just moved too fast and jostled everything. That really could be all there was to it. Getting up had been the right thing to do, though. Things were sitting much more comfortably, now. Maybe the medicine was helping, after all. 

She still didn’t like having the taste of it in her mouth, though. She took a little sip of ginger ale and let it lay on her tongue for a moment, swirling it around before swallowing it. It was strikingly cold and tangy in her warm mouth, but it did help. When it felt safe, she sipped again. Nothing bad happened.

 

She felt her eyelids getting heavy and was happy to let herself drift. Yes, coming to the couch had been the right thing to do. Sleep was what she needed.  
She wasn’t surprised to be a bit road weary. She’d completely slipped her traces at Sardi’s. she didn’t blame herself, though. The evening had been absolutely gold plated. 

The food, of course, was fantastic and beyond plentiful. Memories of it drifted through her sleepy mind in bright little snippets, with perfect clarity and in amazing detail.  
Hearts of celery. Clam cocktail. Caviar. Vichyssouise. Foie gras. Brochette of lamb. Hollandaise. 

There were the cocktails, of course. Several of them and then several more. There was the wine, Cabernet , with dinner, Constantia with dessert. And all through the evening, Champagne, gallons of it. And what a dessert! Boccone dolce, it had been…….so rich. She remembered the taste and texture vividly as if it were still in her mouth. No, there wasn’t any doubt. She’d gone way past enjoyment or even indulgence. Well, wasn’t that why we had such evenings?

The company had been as glorious as everything else. So many of her friends had been there, laughing, retelling old stories, raising all kinds of good natured Cain. The big moment came when, at some signal that she missed, everyone stood and started moving their chairs and tables toward the edges of the room, clearing every inch of floor that they could. 

She had no idea what was going on until she heard a familiar drum beat start up from behind her, near the front door. She turned and saw Fred Milano and Angelo D’Aleo sitting at a table, smiling at her. Fred was drumming out the beat with the flats of his hands, the tabletop standing in for a conga drum. As she watched, the two men began humming a perfect a cappella rendition of Nascimbenes’ instrumental piece.

She glanced back at the others and saw that they’d spread out in a ring, in front of the stacked up chairs and tables. Then, she understood. They’d cleared the floor for her. She was perfectly willing, but she’d need a partner. Then, the door opened and the crowd erupted in cheers and applause as Matt Mattox came trotting into the room. 

“Right on cuuuuuuuuuue, Mattheeeeeeeeeeeew!” someone in the back of the room called out. 

She realized that he must have come straight from his performance at the Alvin. He was still in his makeup and costume. Beaming, he extended his hand. 

She realized, then, the great pains that her friends must have taken. Fred and Ang had to have thoroughly rehearsed that number. As good as they were, it was just too perfect to be off the cuff. And, now, one of the finest male dancers on Broadway was leading her onto the makeshift floor. Deeply touched, she kicked off her stilettos, wrapped herself in the music and gave the room everything she had. To her faint surprise, the moves came back effortlessly, the five years and three thousand miles between her and them vanishing like smoke from a cigarette. 

When the original number was finished, she kept right on going. Matt caught on immediately and followed her through every variation that she made in the original choreography. My God, he was good! Again, the cameras came out. The entire experience became a series of brilliant, strobing images, faces smiling, clapping hands, of she and Matthew frozen in mid turn. It ended with wild, cheering applause and an even brighter, unbelievably long orgy of flash photography. She remembered wondering how the boys could possibly be replacing their bulbs so quickly. 

It was a wonderful memory, but in her condition, she should not have dwelt upon it. Even the mere thought of so much motion and stimulation was too much for her. That awful, slow spinning sensation was back and stronger than before. Her drowsiness vanished and, when she sat up, a wave of true nausea flooded up in her. It was happening, then. Her simple discomfort had moved on into actual sickness. 

The taste of that disgustingly rich dessert hadn’t just been a dream or a memory, she realized. It was, somehow, back in her mouth. How could she have enjoyed it so much? What was wrong with her? How had she stood the cloying sweetness, or the sickening heaviness of the thick whipped cream in which the fruit was absolutely drowned? And the portion had been huge. And she’d finished every last bite of it. And then put that awful, syrupy wine on top of it.

Her stomach rose again. She wished she hadn’t thought of the dessert. The wave passed, but it left her feeling noticeably worse than she’d been just a moment before. She’d been wrong. Her miserable, overfilled feeling wasn’t gone. It was still there and stronger than ever. The nausea hadn’t replaced it. It had joined it. 

She willed herself to stop thinking about all of the food and drinking and dancing. If she could just do that, then there might be a chance that……..

She sat straight and perfectly still and tried. Yes, she did feel worse now, but really only slightly so. That was good, that was something, at least. But then that was also the way that sickness worked. Each wave pushed you a little farther along and then receded. For a terrible moment, you felt absolutely wretched. But then it passed and you felt better. Better, yes, but always worse than before. It was like standing on a beach, watching the endless, relentless waves slowly push a shell up out of the water. A little at a time…..a little at a time. Pushing it a little farther each time, then leaving it there. To wait.

And you always told yourself, assured yourself, of the same thing, that it was all right. Yes, you felt worse, but only a LITTLE worse. And, really, you didn’t feel all that bad. If it stayed like this, you’d bee all right. Of course you would. ‘ Just as long as it doesn’t get any worse. If it only, just please, stops right here. You’ll be fine. Yes. 

But, of course, it doesn’t stop. It does keep getting worse, and you’re not fine. You won’t be fine, because the teasing, awful waves keep coming. Edging the little shell, edging you slowly, patiently along, making you sicker. Bringing you closer and closer to washing up onto the sand. 

She swallowed, hating herself for letting such a horribly perfect image into her mind. It was worse than thinking about food.

 

The glass of ginger ale was still in her hand. She’d learned, from experience, that sipping a drink, almost any drink, could hold sometimes back sickness for a while. It forced the muscles in your stomach to move downward, or something. She wasn’t sure and didn’t really want to think too hard about that, either. She’d also learned, the hard way, that it was risky. Overdoing it could lead to the worst possible outcome. Outcome. She caught the double entendre and shuddered. 

She decided to try. She raised the glass and took a tiny, careful, sip. The taste was brutally pungent and the liquid almost shockingly cold. But swallowing it did, for the moment, do as she’d hoped. For a very short time, she felt better. 

Soon though, she knew she’d made a mistake. She reached over and set the glass on the far side of the end table, so she wouldn’t have to look at it. Fighting panic, she wracked her brains for something, for anything to stop what she could no longer deny was coming closer by the second. 

Fresh air always helped when she was carsick. She got up and hurried out onto the terrace. There was a nice, summer breeze, warm and refreshing. She laid her hands on the guardrail and looked across Fifth Avenue at Saint Patrick’s. She was grateful to be high enough above the street that the smells from the restaurants and the exhaust from the cars and couldn’t reach her. 

It was still early enough for the street to be busy. She looked down at the hundreds of cars trundling along the avenue. There were Lincolns, Cadillacs, a few Packards, and scores of mustard yellow Checkers. There was even one ancient Duesenberg, the kind of car she’d imagined having when she was a little girl, in North Carolina. That was before she’d been in many cars and before she’d had her first long ride down a winding mountain road. She hated cars after that. Just about every time she’d had to endure an unexpected car ride, it seemed to be right after she’d eaten. The same thing always happened and she rarely had a private place for it. Nearly always, she found herself right at the side of the road right beside the road, throwing up in full view of everyone passing by. Everyone told her she’d grow out of it, but she never really had. To this day, about the most she could bear was a short cab or limousine ride around the city. 

She thought of how awful being in a car would be, right then. She still associated the smell of the interior, even one that was brand new and immaculately clean, with sickness, with throwing up. Throwing up…. Ohhh…..why did that awful phrase have to keep going through her mind, now of all times? She kept breathing the night air, carefully, slowly, afraid now of even that much movement.

It was no good. The waves kept coming, each right on the heels of the last. Stronger. Faster. Washing the tiny, helpless shell ever closer to the beach. They brought the most awful pictures into her mind….so many different pictures…..all those times beside parked cars, in bathrooms, once behind the freak show tent at a carnival….sinks…paper bags….enameled basins….God, this feeling….it was poisoning her entire body…… throwing up…….somehow the words didn’t seem…….strong enough…..not violent enough. 

“I’m going to vomit,” she said aloud. Everything in my stomach is ……..going to……. 

She swallowed.

She’d always thought that nausea was absolutely the worst feeling life had to offer, worse than any kind of pain……. and when she was a child, she would almost rather have died than be sick to her stomach. 

Suddenly, she found that she did, in fact, smell the odors of the city on the air. So even that was hope was fading. She turned her back on the street. Even the lights of the city, usually so beautiful, revolted her.

She could hear the Magnavox, playing in the living room. She liked the song , ‘Patricia’ it was called, and she was sad to be hearing it. Now, it would always remind her of tonight, of this misery.

Tears welled up in her eyes and ran, unfettered, down her cheeks. She didn’t try to hold them back. She needed every, shred of her will and her strength for the only struggle that mattered. She didn’t wipe at them, even though they burned her eyes and made her cheeks itch and tickle maddeningly. She was afraid to move even that much. She stood there, in the warm night, her skin slick with icy sweat and tried to be motionless as marble. She tried not to breathe. She tried not to think. She wished not to exist. 

Her reflection in the terrace door was a horror, a thousand times worse than the one she’d seen in the bathroom mirror, when she’d already looked unmistakably sick. Her skin was chalk pale and her expression was that unmistakable mix of profound sadness and physical disgust that only the most brutal nausea can bring. She wished to God that she’d managed to take off her makeup. She swore that she could feel the sickening, greasy smear of her lipstick and the shocking redness of it only made her pallor look worse. Crying had loosened her mascara, washing a pair of ugly, dark furrows through her powder and rouge. 

A weird numbness descended, wrapping her tormented mind and body in a kind of haze that seemed to render everything, even her illness, soft and distant. The only thing that seemed real and fully present was the music. The Magnavox. She remembered shopping for it that day, at B. Altman’s. While she was talking to the salesman, she’d overheard some boor call the brand………..“Maggot box”…….. 

 

And there’d been that awful quote of Larrys’, when they were sitting down to dinner. 

“We fatten up all creatures to feed ourselves, and we fatten ourselves to feed…… worms…………”

Imagine using that for a toast!

Something deep inside her came unfixed. It stirred, then rose, hard and apple sized, pushing aside everything in its’ way. It came almost gently, but with frightening unstoppability. At the back of her throat it paused, hovering, wetly fouling her mouth with its’ brassy, sour milk taste. She knew that feeling. She ran.

She was familiar with every inch of the apartment and its’ darkness shouldn’t have mattered. But as things were, it did. Everything did. She went as quickly as she dared, terrified that she’d stumble and lose the last few seconds that she hadn’t already squandered. 

God, she was an idiot! She hadn't gone out to the terrace for air, or not just for air, anyway. She saw that, now. She’d done it because there was as far from the bathroom as she could get without leaving the apartment. She realized that, the sicker she’d felt, the farther she’d gone, because she was too cowardly to accept what was clearly going to happen. She’d literally been running away from the toilet! Idiot! Idiot!

She heard an ugly, wracking noise as she passed the foyer and realized that she was retching. She ran faster and clapped her hands over her mouth. After a fe steps, though, she lowered them. Running that way was too awkward and she was regaining her wits. She knew what would happen if she tried to hold back her vomit by force.

Something dripped from her mouth onto the front of her peignoir. It was saliva, of course. But her throat spasmed so painfully that she could almost have expected blood. The wave ended, though, without anything coming up. Thank God! But, of course, that was only the beginning. Against her will, she sucked in a huge, gasping breath.

When she reached the hallway, she abandoned all caution, dashing forward with every bit of speed she could manage. Everything but the bathroom door, still looking so far away, faded to a dim blur. Wall sconces, a lithograph, a group of six miniature paintings, the pattern of the carpet and the carving of the wainscoting all went by without making any real impression. The door was all that was real or that mattered.

Midway down the hall stood an antique demilune table, covered with a bobbin lace runner. As she passed, the back of her hand slammed it a hard, full on blow. Her little finger snagged a loop of the runner, yanking it along after her and somersaulting the tall Orrefors vase that stood upon it. Ivory roses, blue delphinia, greenery and water flew everywhere, splashing and crushing unheeded beneath her feet.

She made it to the bathroom door just as the second heave took her, stronger and more deeply wrenching than the first. Only then did she notice the runner, hanging from her hand. She looked down at it, baffled, struggling to see through the black and gold spots that swarmed before her eyes.

She clawed at the runner with her other hand, which immediately became as entangled as the first. She gave it several hard yanks, trying to tear it loose. The violent motion and the precious lost seconds were the final blow. . The dry, grinding sound of her retch became a thick, undulating gargle. Her mouth filled with the soured but unmistakable tastes of her dessert, of ginger ale and Pep-Tans. It came up out of her stomach in a gigantic pink and curdled rush, flooding her nostrils and turning the runner into a sodden, reeking mess in her hands

She gave up struggling with the runner and wrapped her fingers around the slimy knob, continuing to vomit, splattering the knob, the door, her hands, the runner, her shins, the floor, everything. It took her forever to realize that she was trying to turn the knob the wrong way. Finally, she got the door open and entered the bathroom in a move that was nearly a fall. The knob slipped from her grasp and the door slammed back against the wall with a loud bang. She went hard to her hands and knees, crawled to the toilet and threw back the seat. She put her arms on the rim and lowered her head, coming into position a second or so after the spasm ended. Not a single drop of her first wave of vomit reached the bowl. 

 

She felt moisture on her chest and realized that the runner was pinned between her and the front of the toilet bowl. Her already cooling vomit had soaked through the thin material of her peignoir onto her breasts. The simple horror of this wiped away any last smattering of resistance that she had to what was happening to her. In its’ place came a feeling of revulsion unlike any she could remember. God, this was going to be horrible.

With the next wave she drew in the deepest breath she could. When she threw up, she bore down even harder than her body intended, forcing out as much as she could. When the flow began to diminish, she forced it to go on, not giving up until her lungs were empty and her belly muscles burned. 

She tasted an awful mixture of lamb, green olives and pineapple that immediately brought on the next, and largest wave. It came with a force and volume that struck the back of the toilet and splattered, sprinkling her face, both with her own warm effluvia and cool splashes from the bowl. Through running eyes, she watched the tawny flood plunge deep below the surface then rise up and out to its’ edge, tossing the water like a troubled lake. Her hand, slickened with vomit and still trapped in the runner was hanging deeply into the bowl, its’ bright red nails nearly submerged in the muck. She thought of pulling it back and decided that she simply didn’t care. She was getting this over with. Everything else could just go fry ice. 

Nonetheless, she was becoming frightened again. It’d been a while since she’d thrown up and she’d forgotten what brutally hard work it could be. Each time the sickness crested, it wrung her body from neck to crotch affording her only bare seconds before rising once more, like some filthy liquid bubbling up out of a clogged drain. Worse, it wasn’t bringing any of the relief that she usually got as soon as she even began emptying her stomach. She wondered if it was ever going to stop, or if her body would just go right on finding things to tear out of her until she died. No wonder she’d always been afraid of this. 

“Never going to be over,” she thought, again. “Never going to be over.”

But, of course, it eventually was. Some time later, her eyes opened and came into focus. She realized that she’d passed out leaning into the toilet, either while she was still throwing up or afterward. She had no idea which. 

Then, she saw how close her face was to the mess in the bowl and sat up with a start. The bolt of pain that move sent through her ribs made her wonder if she’d cracked any. She swallowed and momentarily forgot the pain in her ribs. Her throat felt positively scoured. 

Then, she noticed that her hands were still tangled in the damned runner. She set about freeing them and, no longer distracted by sickness, managed the job in moments. Aggravated, she wadded the thing up and threw it. It hit the wall floor with a nasty slap then lay on the floor like an expensive, drowned snake. 

She rolled over and sat with her back against the toilet. She moved carefully, but her ribs still complained. God, she felt ruined. 

But she also felt wonderful. The nausea was entirely gone and her brain and body were practically singing with afterglow. Ohhh…… Soooooo much, much better! It really was over!

Then, she looked around the room and would have thrown up all over again, if she’d been able. As it was, she only gagged, and not very hard. She just didn’t have the strength. 

But, my God! Nearly half the length of the door was covered with a pinkish, fan shaped splash that was an honest to God Jackson Pollock homage to her lost dessert. Masticated shreds of strawberry and blueberry, and the curds of whipped cream, as recognizable as old friends, played against a lovely, chocolate tinged field of melted meringue. The color scheme and the energy of the piece were as elegant as anything in the apartment. In fact, they harmonized perfectly well with the Farahan rug in the hallway. Well, at least she hadn’t thrown up on that. It’d still have to be cleaned, though, to keep that vase water from staining it.

Then, she saw what she was lying in and knew that she had to get away. The floor was in approximately the same shape as the door and the air in the room was like a steam bath. She leaned on the lid of the toilet tank for support and almost fell when her slippery, trembling hand couldn’t hold its’ grip. The lid shifted and slammed against the wainscoting with a clang. She stumbled, but caught her balance. 

She looked down into the bowl for a long time before reaching for the flush handle and, on the second try, managed to press it. She kept watching as fresh water flowed into the bowl, making its’ contents rise, then swirl and finally wash away. 

Her filthy peignoir peeled off of her body like a banana skin. She broke one of its’ ties trying to undo it, but that didn’t mater. It was as lost as both the runner and her dinner.  
She let it fall and shuffled toward the shower. 

She stepped in and turned on the taps, letting the spray wash over her before its’ temperature was right or even tolerable. She rinsed her hands, then cupped them and poured water on the tap handles of the to wash away the vomit she left when she touched them.

She had to lean against the wall of the shower to stay on her feet. The scent of vomit was in her nose and the noise of her sickness rang in her ears, the way an airliners’ engines do, even long after a flight. When the water was finally warm, she grasped the downspout with both hands and let her legs go limp while the water washed over her head and body. “Over,” she thought again. “It’s over.” Wonderful.

 

In spite of her complete mortification, she suddenly laughed. She wondered if there was any way under the sun that she could possibly have fucked up this thing on an even slightly grander, more Cecil B. Demille scale as she’d done, even if she’d taken an entire year to plan it out. If so, she failed to see it. 

What she did see was her next career triumph. It was to be titled ‘The Big Cleanup’, a private, single performance, one woman show. There’d be no costar, no director and no crew. She would jump off of the Triborough Bridge before she’d have any living soul know what’d happened, tonight. Her name would come above the title, of course. After all she’d invested in the production, how could it not?

And, Hell, if Fred Astaire could dance with a goddamned coat rack and make it look easy, she could act with a sponge, a mop and a bucket. 

But that would, wait. All she would have tonight would be a few more minutes under the shower, a quick dry off and then about twenty hours of face down unconsciousness, in her bed. ‘Once Upon A Mattress’, indeed. Yes, the mess would wait.

It was as Viv had said, so famously, twenty years ago. Dear Vivling. She’d taken tedious delight in saying it ever since, at the slightest provocation. She’d used it tonight, in fact, right after Larrys’ fatal toast. 

“Tomorrow. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.”


End file.
